


Never Mind That Noise You Heard

by Sanj



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-07
Updated: 2007-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/pseuds/Sanj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worcester, Massachusetts, 1997.  <em>"Now we both get to be the crazy motherfucker. Congratulations."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Mind That Noise You Heard

_Worcester, Massachusetts, 1997_

"I'm not a baby. Jesus." Sam swore to God he was going to kill Dean if he kept smirking like that. "Just leave me home. I can take care of myself."

"I would, okay? And then Dad would kill me. So just play along for, like, half an hour? An hour, tops."

"Dad's totally being retarded about this." He knew this was the wrong argument to make, with Dean, but that didn't stop him from doing it. Lately it was like he couldn't stop saying stuff like that.

"You're retarded if you think you can defend yourself against jack shit with your leg banged up like that."

Sam had torn his ACL in Manchester the week before, dodging a mini-fridge thrown by a frat-boy poltergeist. Which was not the point. "I'm safe by myself in the house. The house has to be safe, because we all sleep in it. If it's not safe, we're all fucked."

"Yeah, whatever, Sammy. Never mind. Forget it. You want Chinese?"

"Oh, come on, Dean. I didn't say you shouldn't go. I'm just pointing out that it's stupid for you to bring me along."

"And I'm saying that's how it works or I will just stay home, which is fine."

"You know, you get enough aggressive aggression in your life that you could probably skip out on the passive kind."

"Cute. You coming or what?"

"Let me get my homework. One hour, Dean, that's it. I have PT to do." Sam wasn't above a guilt trip either.

Dean drove the Impala out east by the lake, where the kids from the high school parked. On the way he bought a case of PBR.

"You know," Sam told him, "the boys and girls will still like you even if you don't bring a present to the party."

"This isn't a present, Sammy. It's a courting display."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Bow down and fear him: he's got a fake ID. Who wants to make it with the bad boy this week?"

"Shelley Donato." Dean said reverently. "She's --"

"The prom queen, I know, I go to the same stupid school you do."

"I was going to say she's got detention with me all next week."

Sam just loved Worcester. Even the prom queen ended up in detention. "It's fate," he said, unimpressed.

He was a little impressed, though, after they got there. Sam just curled up in the backseat, rolled down the windows part way, and took a flashlight to his algebra. Dean slid out, totally cool -- leather jacket on even though it was May -- and slid in right next to Shelley Donato. Who _was_ kind of hot, as far as Sam could tell from a hundred yards away.

Dean was really good at that stuff, though. Every town they moved to, he just decided who he was going to be for the next month or next semester -- the bad boy, like now, or sometimes the hot new cross-country runner, or that crazy motherfucker who carried a weapon to school. Even the chess captain once, just to prove he could do it. And whatever mission he set for himself, he accomplished it.

It was awe-inspiring, in its own way. Teachers fell for his lame stories; pretty girls ate out of his hand; guys started walking and talking like him. Sam just wished he'd pick better things to do, more interesting ones. He'd asked Dean about it once.

"Small, manageable goals, Sammy," he'd said. "We're not gonna be here that long. Next town, everything changes. Gotta stay fresh."

Sam had only one goal, which he told no one, and which he stayed focused on all the time, even though it was basically impossible.

If Dad and Dean wanted to hunt, fine. Didn't mean Sam had to. The teachers kept telling him his test scores were off the charts; all he had to do was keep his head down and stay focused, and he'd get into college, and have a job that paid real money, and own his own house. He had the walls all planned, reinforced with rock salt and silver on the inside, and a library bigger than Bobby Singer's, and his own laboratory in the basement.

It was going to be great.

He was thinking about how many cars Dean would want, and what kinds they would be, when he heard the knock on the glass behind him.

Not paying attention to his surroundings: shit.

It was a big stoner/jock crossbreed with no neck -- sort of the son of that guy in Rocky Horror. "You Winchester's puppydog or something?" The guy seemed to think this was very amusing. "He just left you in the car with a little crack."

Sam ignored him.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. You Pretty Boy's brother?"

"Probably," Sam said, not looking up from his algebra. Giving off as many _fuck off and die_ vibes as he could.

"You're kinda pretty, too." And that was it -- trouble, no question.

"Thanks, I guess."

No-neck walked around the car a few times, looking up and peering at Sam every couple of feet. Not good. Sam wasn't sure if the guy was after the car or the underage booty, but this was definitely not good.

It was booty, apparently, from the way No-neck was smiling at him. "Nice car. Okay if I get in?" Jesus. It was like he'd gotten his sexual predator tips from a filmstrip.

"Ask Dean. It's his car."

"Come on, just let me see the dash. Old Chevy, isn't it?"

Sam just shrugged, because that was obvious to anyone who was literate.

After a few minutes of "come on," and "sorry, not my car," No-neck switched his tactic. "You want to come out and get a beer?"

"I'm cool, thanks," Sam said. " I'm just doing my homework, here. You go on and have one for me."

"You're cute," No-neck said. "You up at Central?"

It never failed to amaze Sam that people didn't know who they went to school with, even when they'd been there their whole lives. "I'm in the middle school, " he said, stressing the "underage" part of underage booty.

"No way, you've gotta be sixteen, anyway. Old enough." He cut to the chase. "You want me to blow you?"

He'd been half expecting this proposal, but it was still a winner. "I'm sorry?"

"Open the door, I'll give you a blow job."

Unbelievable. "Are you sick? I'm fourteen."

"Guys do it that young. Come on. You know you want to try it, pretty little faggot like you."

Also apparently unclear on the definition of 'faggot'. "Um, no, and no, and back away from the car now, please." This was ridiculous.

"Why? What are you gonna do?"

Big guys, Dean said, were the easiest to take down, because they overestimated what their sheer size could do. That said, Sam didn't really want to tear his leg up any more. He pulled the Bowie knife out of his jacket pocket and stuck it into his bookbag, holding No-neck's gaze while he did it.

It was the first time he'd ever played the crazy-motherfucker-with-a-weapon card, but at least he hadn't pulled the Beretta out from under the passenger seat.

This had the wrong effect on No-neck, who seemed to think that the fight for Sam's virtue was on, and started to lean on the Impala and shake it. He was big enough that it started rocking like a carnival ride.

Situation officially out of control. Sam leaned forward into the front seat and honked the horn as loud as he could. No-neck laughed and shook the car harder, for about fifteen seconds.

And then Dean got there.

"Little Sammy giving you a problem, Owen?" Dean asked, in that voice that meant the guy was really, really lucky to be alive, and his continuing in that state depended on his good behavior. Dean spoke quietly, but it got through all the same. "Come on, don't mess up the frame, okay?"

No-neck dropped the car. "Your crazy brother just pulled a fucking knife on me." A crowd was gathering, and No-neck started to play to it. "Threatened to kill me!"

"Yeah, the guidance counselors can't do anything with him, it's a tragedy," Dean said. "Sammy, you good in there?"

"Doing my algebra," Sam said, and managed not to swear when his voice cracked.

"See? We're all cool. Now, I'm just gonna take my baby brother here home before he cuts himself on his toys."

Dean had to maneuver past No-neck Owen to get into the driver's seat, though, and Owen wasn't moving.

"We're not going to start this," Dean said, keeping his voice light and easy. "Really. I teach self-defense." (To Sam, okay, but technically true.) "You don't want to get into it with me."

The crowd drew around them; Sam could almost smell them picking sides, making bets. Owen shoved at Dean; Sam couldn't hear what Owen was muttering, but he bet it was impressive.

"Seriously," Dean warned again, and this time it wasn't friendly. When Owen took another swing at him, Dean flipped him and put him down on his back, nice and easy.

_Whoa_, said the crowd. Dean rolled his eyes and unlocked the car.

It happened so fast that Sam was still saying "Dean, look out!" when Owen landed on his stomach, and Dean pulled his arm back around with a sickening crunch.

"Somebody call 911," Dean said. "I just broke this asshole's arm." And with that, he slid into the car and drove off, so fast that the Impala fishtailed as it got onto the highway.

"Put the knife away," Dean said several minutes later. "Don't escalate with a guy like that. Also, now we both get to be the crazy motherfucker. Congratulations."

"Everybody saw him hit first. And you warned him." Sam shoved his books back in his bag. "And he was trying to molest me."

"So you don't open the door, Sammy. Christ."

Sam knew Dean was just scared; he'd broken a guy's arm, a real person who could call the cops. "I didn't."

They rode in silence all the way home. Sam was not going to cry, so that was it; he didn't make any noise at all. Dean drove recklessly, as though daring the local police to pull him over and charge him with speeding and assault.

Nobody stopped them until Dean pulled into the carport of the trailer. Where Dad's truck already was, mud up past the hubcaps.

Busted. "Fuck," Dean said, and repeated it a few times for emphasis. "Come on," he said, and Sam got out with him. "Let's get this over with."

"Do we --" Sam thought about it, wondered what the odds were that the story would get back to Dad before they left town. "Do we have to tell him?" Sam asked. It looked like they were wrapping up here, anyway.

Dean turned around and looked at Sam appraisingly -- grinned at him like he hadn't in years, like they were best friends as well as brothers. "Guess not," he said, thinking it over. He spit in his hand; Sam thought back to pinky-swearing when he was five, and spit-shook back.

"You're okay, Sammy," Dean said. "I don't care if you're a delinquent."

"We were at the video store?" Sam suggested.

"Yeah, well, you can't find Evil Dead anywhere in this hick town," Dean complained as he opened the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2007 Family Secret Challenge run by Destina. Kass, Ellen Fremedon, and Victoria P. were the last-minute betas. The prompt (and title) were from Metallica's "Enter Sandman," which really only came out in the kind of high school delinquent behavior that I associate with the song.


End file.
